


Chilly

by HackerAxe



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, Spoilers, The Concept of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackerAxe/pseuds/HackerAxe
Summary: During the dead of night, after what was meant to be a relaxing camping trip between Arthur and Dutch, Arthur fails to sleep with the painful thought of his life slipping away with every wheeze. The frigid air isn't the only thing chilling him to the bone, and there is only one man who can keep him warm through the night.





	Chilly

In a drought-stricken valley that yearned for the rain, he was the only river that never stopped flowing — even boldly past the foreboding hills and serrated rocks. When all hope was being smothered by the growing darkness, his light was the only flame that could breathe through the doubt. Under the glittering black blanket that tucked in the sleeping Earth, he was the only pillow he needed. He was the only pillow that was there. Arthur hadn’t stopped to consider ever needing a pillow that night, or even much of a blanket. However, once the abrupt chills of the dreaded, eternal unknown grazed his spine, a pillow and blanket were all his head wanted to rest on and be surrounded by. Dutch was all of these things for him.

 

Death was only an audacious bluff until he heard it howl his name just weeks ago. Already, the wolf he cried for in vain was clawing at him, starting at his chest and to his lungs. It was not in a glorious gunfight coupled with gun smoke and screams, nor in a heroic sacrifice, as far-fetched as Arthur thought it was. But rather, in a chair. A chair that was as blunt, idle and cold as the doctor’s diagnosis. _Tuberculosis_. The foul sound of the curse was all Arthur had ringing in his mind alongside countless echoes of gunfire he shot in the past, now ricocheting and grazing past him one after the next. It was all Arthur had to accompany him in the lonesome silence as he laid beside Dutch, resting comfortably in an obliviousness Arthur always was envious of in moments like this.

 

On the outside, his ridged and dense surface could raise the assumption in the minds of those unfamiliar to him that he contained nothing but obliviousness, coupled with raw strength. However, his mind was all but the contrary; Stimulated further by the minute, his mind was hyperactive and aware — frightfully aware of every pulse that flicked against his skin from underneath and every blade of grass that stabbed the smallest pores of his skin, coated with the weak breeze of the ominous night. To the rhythm of the haunting overture that begun his restlessness, every blasting, ruminating thought caused his entire body to turn and readjust on his sweaty cot.

 

The tip of death’s snout rocked Arthur back and forth and he struggled to resist questioning what would await him when he would be lulled asleep for good. If he did not answer this question, it would pester him for the remainder of the night, preventing him from getting decent sleep. The winds lowered their howling to hear Arthur’s thoughts debate each other, curious about their reasonings. His life would end, period. It was simple. So simple, the rocking slowed to a halt and a gentle breath passed through his nostrils. At last, his eyes closed and remained still to savor the blissful silence.

 

And then what?

 

The question jolted his mind awake, leaving Arthur’s pleasant dreams scrambling alongside the mounds of eyelids to evade the question. And then nothing. Nothing would happen. As rushed and frantic as an answer it was, the fact still remained: His life will be over. Nothing will remain of him. He will die. Arthur Morgan will die. Silence returned, though the bliss fled on its arrival.

 

What happens when nothing happens?

 

It was another shotgun blast that grazed the side of his mind. Another forceful nudge from the snout. Another hasty answer erupted from the pressure of a gun he could not see on the back of his head. Nothing! Nothing would happen.

Something must occur when something _happens._ Nothing is something, but what is that something? What is something that occurs when nothing happens at the end of life? The breeze scoffed at Arthur’s failing arguments, snickering in his ears with an unsympathetic push. It was as cold as the sneers he once gave to his pathetic victims crawling away with crosshairs on their necks, but not cold enough to cool down the sweating rushing down his sticky skin. The depths of Hell left their doors open that night, and the hot air was at work on Arthur’s body.

 

What would nothing look like? What would he see? Struggling to think above the sound of his heart impatiently pounding against his chest, an answer was smacked on the table: He would see the same thing he saw in the back of his head! Easy enough. It made perfect sense to Arthur, especially because he knew exactly what the back of his head looked like. He would see that same nothingness once he died.

 

Arthur had no clue what was in the back of his head.

 

His eyes desperately twisted to attempt to peek, but the stretching only resulted in a striking pain in the corners of his eyes. Just a little more and Arthur could see nothing. He could see what he would see for the rest of his existence after he —

 

But Arthur wouldn’t exist anymore. What does one see when they cease to exist?

What do they feel? What do they hear?

The heat intensified, reducing the breeze into nothing but noise scraping against his ears. Raging thoughts blasting from the barrels were indistinguishable from his accelerating heart rate, and the smoke they left irritated his lungs. Anxiety was a pathogen that poisoned him like none other, even his rationality. Breathe, Arthur, you’re overthinking.

 

What do you think about after you die? The pounding continued.

How do you think while your brain is being eaten alive by maggots? The gunfire was relentless against his skull. Forcing his mind to stop thinking in order to emulate what death would bring only caused more thinking, and more strain against his throbbing temples. Breathe.

 

What does nothing feel like? It feels like the lack of. The lack of what? The lack of whatever the hell _this_ is.

Arthur scratched his body haphazardly in between his tosses, venturing deeper and deeper only to find pain. He attempted to find feeling so he could define what it meant to be without it, but now his sizzling skin only found an uncontrollable itch. Breathe. He wasn’t listening to his better judgment. The itch bled into the soiled cot, and the feeling remained persistent. Trembling hands and feet conflicted to the rising temperature of his body.

What does nothing look like? His eyes strained until tears tickled his lashes. Breathe.

What does nothing sound like? All of those innocent people, their screams and last breaths recorded in his mind played over and over again.  The records fell and bashed against his skull. Breathe.

What does nothing feel like? Awareness of every nerve of his body sent his fingers picking at each and every one of them through every shift in his body. Any more and his heart’s patience would grow thin and break free of its cage, rushing to see the answer behind death too soon in an all-out attack. His lungs panicked at the sight of all the chaos around it. Breathe, breathe.

What does nothing taste like? His tongue longed and starved to experience taste, going for any ounce of saliva first. He was left with only a salty, metallic taste rising in the back of his tongue. He attempted to breathe.

 

Hell’s doors fell open, and yet when he tried to look, he found only nothing.

Nothing.

What was nothing?

It was too hot. Thoughts went faster, quicker, rapid, chaotic. Breathe. He couldn’t see, but he saw everything. He didn’t know what nothing felt like but felt everything at once. Breathe. His body begged his mind to stop, but his mind questioned what the point of it was if everything would become nothing in all due time. Breathe. Death’s teeth sank into the bottom of his lungs. Breathe. The wind was hysterical, cackling at his pitiful display. Breathe. The wound from its teeth bled and flooded the insides of his throat. Breathe. Arthur’s mouth opened, but nothing escaped. Breathe. Nothing. There it was! Breathe. It was right there. If only he could know what it was. Breathe.

 

If only he could breathe. Arthur couldn’t breathe.

Breathe.

“Breathe!”

 

* * *

 

Launching out of purgatory, Arthur crashed back into reality, spinning before him in a tornado of uncertainty. He had been pulled out of the darkness he was drowning in and beached into arms he didn’t recognize. The nightmare may have ended, but his body erratically squirmed at any opportunity. Breathe, breathe, all he could remember is that he had to breathe. Nothing else was in his mind. Huff after raspy huff, he fought at nothing.

 

“Breathe, son!”

 

Something else was in his mind. A voice. No, it was right next to him. Where was he again? It was very difficult to hear over the sound of his sloppy coughs and wet inhales. Everything tasted like lukewarm metal from his throat up to his nose. The force against his stinging body tightened.

 

“Arthur!” the voice cracked. His sharp voice pinned the view.

Everything was steady. Everything was still. The wind was silent, the wolf gave up their pursuit, the gunfire ceased, the questions faded, and the doors had shut. Everything was at rest.

Arthur’s heart succumbed to exhaustion as it slowed, and his lungs wheezed for mercy. They cried bloody tears that trickled and oozed through the corners of his parted lips, but Dutch’s shoulders were there to catch each of them. Being gradually pulled closer to him like this, Arthur could hear and feel the low buildup of his voice vibrating through his back, massaging his cheek as it laid by his firm neck. Dutch’s arms blanketed him through the growing cold.

 

“Easy now,” Dutch murmured, slowly stroking Arthur’s damp back from the bottom of his nape down, and then from the top of his head down once he finished. The vibration massaged Arthur’s face, and eventually, Dutch’s hand stayed on the top of Arthur’s head for a few moments to enhance that comfortable, secure feeling. “You’re okay son, you’re okay.”

 

Silence had passed between them for quite some time. However, in Arthur’s state, he was not aware of the amount of time that had past. He was only aware of the snug warmth that embraced his aching bones and lulled his frantic nerves. And the stroking. The smooth, nurturing stroking against his head and back that his soul craved for and was deprived of in his life for so long, but was unknown to him until it finally arrived.

 

Over the course of the timeless moment, Arthur’s coughs melted into quiet, raspy exhales through his dripping red lips, his drowsy eyelashes batted over spacey, bloodshot eyes, and his body subconsciously wrapped itself deeper into Dutch’s arms. And just as subconsciously, Dutch begun subtly rocking Arthur left and right while he let his mind drift as well, absentmindedly gazing on the dirty cot. Being the critical-thinker he was, he understood the situation. For now, it was better not to ask deeper about it.

 

Arthur wheezed once more in an attempt to speak up, but his whine was met with a snuggle up against Dutch’s neck with a delicate hush. His ring-adorned hand remained pressed against Arthur’s sweaty, blood-smeared cheek.

 

“Shh. Hush now,” The weight of Arthur’s body gave way onto Dutch progressively. Dutch never failed to soothe Arthur when he spoke that way, and Dutch knew it had it down like an art. The gentle bellow in his tone caressed his spine. “That’s it… it’s okay. You’re okay.”

 

Weaker, the wheeze happened again, fighting through the unconsciousness beginning to blanket him as well. This time, his lips were motivated to assist. He was going to hush Arthur again, but Dutch heard his name gently beckoned through his fatigued lips. He rubbed once more with an equal gentleness in his cautious whisper.

 

“What? What was that?”

 

“I love you, Dutch.” Deep inside the reaches of his heart, Arthur touched a place that Dutch seldom exposed to anyone in his life. It was his favorite place to be touched, and somehow the easiest place Arthur could reach with the simplest of acts, even at his very weakest. The joy of it all let a light amount of it escape through his lips in a chuckle. After everything that had happened over the last painful weeks, this moment was all he could hope for.

 

“I…”

 

Letting his shoulders fall, but not enough to drop Arthur’s head, he relaxed and rested his head on Arthur’s. Now, both of their eyes fell victim to the growing sleepiness underneath the brilliant stars and soft moonlight.

 

“I love you too, Arthur.”

**Author's Note:**

> As of writing this, I may draw art related to this short story soon. You can see it on my tumblr @ hackeraxe.tumblr.com  
> This is my first short story for a fandom, so please hit me up with a comment if you have some advice on how to get better or words of encouragement!


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